


all this time i’ve been afraid (wouldn’t let it show)

by stevenstamkos



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 16:22:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8408491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stevenstamkos/pseuds/stevenstamkos
Summary: “I don’t know what I would do without Nathan.”“You don’t know what you’d do without him?”“No.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> This would not have been possible without Elise and Leti holding my hand through the entire thing and encouraging me to not scrap this after every scene. ❤
> 
> Title from "Battle Cry" by Imagine Dragons

The first few games without Nathan are okay. Jo can almost pretend that nothing’s changed, that Nate’s just not in the lineup tonight or he’s out for a few weeks with a minor injury. If he doesn’t think about the draft, doesn’t think about how he knows where he’s going next (and isn’t Tampa, Florida so far away?) he can ignore the fact that Nate’s in Denver. He can ignore that Nate’s moved on.

As the season drags on and Nate doesn’t return and doesn’t return, Jo learns to live with it. He still looks for Nate on the ice sometimes, too used to seeing #22 centering him, but he’s a damn good hockey player. He knows how to play with other people, shut up Fucs, stop it with the sad eyes.

It’s harder when he’s not on the ice. Nate’s not there to drive him to school, to take him on their sushi dates. He’s not there for Jo to make fun of for his messy room and his procrastination when it comes to schoolwork.

Jo gets his license and learns to drive himself around, and he doesn’t think about how he’s supposed to go a whole year, a whole career without Nate.

 

 

Jo gets named to Team Canada for World Juniors. Nate doesn’t, of course, because he’s jetting around North America with the Avs, racking up points and getting a hot start to his NHL career.

“You want 29 again?” a staff person asks.

29 used to be Jo’s Team Canada number. Dougie Hamilton wore Jo’s 27 last year, so Jo had nabbed 29, and he’d learned to love it.

It would be nice, wearing the same number again. Take comfort in seeing the big white numbers on his red sweater, solid and sure, a reminder that he has unfinished work on Team Canada. But Nate wears 29 now, in burgundy and white, and Jo doesn’t think it’s a good idea to be wearing Nate’s number when he’s not going to play with Nate.

(Jo had texted him, when he’d first seen the 29 on Nate’s Avs sweater, and Nate said that it had looked good on Jo.

 _thats y you chose it? bc of me?_ Jo had texted back, heart beating too-fast.

Nate had taken a while to answer. _lol bro u just remind me of the gud times in hali u kno? little bit of hali w me in denver_

Of course, it’d been for Halifax, and not for Jo. Never Jo, because Nate might not have moved on from loving the Mooseheads, but he’s clearly moved on from needing Jo.)

Jo wears 27 this year, but the outcome’s the same. He doesn’t cry this time when he fails to medal, knows it was his last chance at World Juniors, feels hollow inside instead.

 

 

They don’t even win the President’s Cup this time. They get knocked out in seven by Val-d’Or after grabbing a 3-2 series lead. Jo avoids the press afterward, but he can’t help reading one blistering article about how his play suffered this year without Nate by his side.

He burns with the knowledge that he’s only as good as he is with Nate. Because he’s not going to be playing with Nate next year (and he’s _going_ to be playing in the NHL next year, he _has_ to, the Bolts can’t cut him again—)

The article doesn’t say _Drouin Only As Good As He Is With MacKinnon_ , but it might as well have. He wonders how much of that’s true, if he’s only one half of a dead pairing that’ll never make it on his own.

Nate’s moved on fine without him, is playing big in the NHL, but Jo—according to the article, Jo hasn’t.

 

Nate wins the Calder, beating two of Jo’s future teammates. He gives an interview about Jo, says Jo would mesh really well with the likes of Tyler Johnson and Ondrej Palat. And why shouldn’t he, a third overall draft pick playing with two Calder finalists? Jo reads the interview four times and bookmarks it.

Maybe Nate still has a little faith in him.

 

 

Jo doesn’t register a single point in either game against the Avs.

Then again, Jo doesn’t register any points most nights.

 

When Nate texts him, asks if he can come see Jo in Tampa during the playoffs, Jo doesn’t respond.

He’s not getting ice time anyway. Coop isn’t letting him skate, isn’t giving him the chance to prove that he’s good enough. He’s been getting shit time as a bottom six forward, knows he’s better than that, but can’t do a thing about it.

The Avs missed the playoffs, but Nate’s still a fucking star.

 _can i come see u?_ Nate texts again, and Jo pretends he didn’t see the message, just keeps pumping iron until the sweat runs down his body, and then keeps going.

_are u ignoring me?_

Jo’s getting healthy scratched every night, and he wants to scream, wants to throw a tantrum. He knows he’s got it, he can do it, he just needs one perfect shot. He gets six games on the third line, zero points, draws a stupid fucking penalty, and is back in a suit every single fucking game.

_:( jo u there?_

They make it to the Cup Final. Jo should feel privileged, proud that his team is good enough to make it here, seven games from winning the Cup only two years after having the third overall pick, but he’s _not playing_. He wants to touch ice again so badly, wants to _play_ damn it, and it’s the worst feeling in the world to have to watch from the sidelines and know that he’s not needed.

Every single article that talks about him only talks about how good he was in juniors. With Nate. Because in the NHL (without Nate), he can’t seem to do a damn thing.

_i’ll be in cole harbor this summer come visit me ok?_

When the Hawks lift the Cup, Jo’s not even on the ice. He cleans out his stall and packs his bags and goes back to Montreal. It feels a lot like fleeing.

 

 

He doesn’t talk about his sophomore season.

He doesn’t talk to Nate either.

 

(At least he’s learned how to live without Nathan.

That’s what he tells himself, anyway. A nagging part of him still wonders if maybe he can’t produce because he’s not playing with Nate. Maybe he and his hockey never learned how to move on.)

 

 

The World Cup’s the worst thing that’s happened to Jo. Sure, it was painful to be cut multiple times from the Bolts, painful to be knocked out in Game 7. But the World Cup—shit. It’s reminded him of what he’s missing, the sight of Nate on his line, their passes connecting smoothly. The weight of Nate crushing him into the boards when they celly, the sound of his ridiculous laughter when he scores (and scores and scores).

It’s been three years, and Jo’s moved on. He’s learned how to go whole months without seeing Nate, learned to check hard and skate away during Avs games. It’s taken him three years, but he’s learned to accept that Nate’s not supposed to be by his side, that their time together was short and beautiful and ultimately never meant to last.

The World Cup fucks that all up.

It takes only three days for his world to revolve around Nathan again.

 

 

Jo swears he’s not going to engage. He’s _not_ , okay. He’s had a season of ups and downs, some injuries and a suspension and some humiliating time in Syracuse, but he came back and proved himself in the playoffs. He knows some people think there are other players better suited to Team North America, but he _earned_ his spot on this roster. He’s not going to let anyone take that away.

Not even Nathan, no matter how much seeing him hurts.

So, Jo knows what he’s doing. He’s absolutely not thinking about how it felt when he realized that Nate so clearly moved on while Jo was stuck in Halifax. He’s not thinking about how Nate goes off during the summer to train with Sidney Crosby because that’s just who he is now, a superstar who trains with Sidney fucking Crosby. _God_. How can Jo even compete, when he’s up against—against _Crosby_?

Jesus fuck, he’s been replaced by Hockey Jesus.

(The older Hockey Jesus, not the one who’s staring at him now, all big worried captain eyes as Jo aggressively tapes his stick.)

Jo’s not going to look at, or talk to, or even breathe the same air as Nate. He’s going to stay far away because he _can_ , damn it, he finally learned how to not be so dependent on—

Nate corners him almost immediately, after that first practice. “Jo.” He stares into Jo’s eyes, searching, and Jo’s eyes skitter around the room searching for an exit. There’s nowhere he can run, not when he’s half-naked and bracketed between Nate’s big arms, his back to his stall.

“Jo, seriously.” Nate’s voice is low, pleading even. “You’ve been avoiding me since—fuck, I don’t even know. Since the draft?”

“That was years ago, Nate, don’t be stupid. No one holds a grudge that long.”

“Except you. You stopped answering my texts, stopped answering my calls. What’s up, bro? Why the cold treatment? I thought we were friends.”

“We are.” They’re not. Jo’s shoved Nate so far he doesn’t know if they’re still friends anymore. “I just got busy, I guess.”

“What, too busy to answer a few texts?”

Jo shifts uncomfortably. Nate’s too close, smells too familiar, and it’s fucking with Jo’s resolve to stay far, far away. “We texted. We went out for sushi after our games.” Not that they’ve seen each other all year. Jo was in Syracuse when the Avs played the Bolts this past season. He hasn’t seen Nate in—fuck, over a year.

“That was _two years ago_ , Jo. We haven’t seen each other since you guys came to Denver in February of 2015. Do you know how long ago that is? Ever since the draft, something’s been up. You don’t talk to me anymore.” And now Nate’s giving him the sad eyes, which he must’ve learned from Fucs. “Did I do something wrong?”

Okay, fuck Nate, fuck him and his ability to make Jo feel like this.

“You didn’t fucking do anything, okay? Lay off it, Nate.”

“Something happened, I just wanna know what.”

Nate’s face is too earnest, his pretty eyes too soft and sad and his pale brows drawn down in hurt confusion. It makes something in Jo’s chest throb with—longing? pain?

“It wasn’t anything,” Jo says quietly. “We just grew up.”

He brushes by Nate, doesn’t turn to look when he feels eyes burning into his back.

 

Coop puts him on a line with Nate in practice, “just to see if that old chemistry’s still there,” and it is, it still fucking is. Finding Nate on the ice is easy as breathing, their passes connecting smoothly tape to tape, their shouts of “Here! Here!” coming naturally after years apart.

Jo goes into the dirty corners to retrieve the puck after a dump-in, spins and shoots off a no-look pass that lands perfectly in front of Nate, who taps it in.

When Nate cellies, he does it with a whole-heartedness that Jo remembers, sweeping Jo into a crushing hug that makes Jo feel like he’s the only one who matters. Nate’s always been good at making him feel like that.

Nate smiles at him after practice, sweaty and glowing with happiness, and Jo wishes it weren’t this easy to fall back into his orbit.

 

“So you wanna grab a bite together?” There’s a hopeful look on Nate’s face as he stands by Jo’s elbow, watching Jo stuff his things in his bag.

Suddenly, Jo’s bag requires all his attention. He slows down his packing, is careful about folding things up neatly instead of shoving it all in haphazardly. Still, by the time he zips up the bag, unable to delay much longer, Nate’s still hovering. Jo glares at his bag, fiddles with the zipper and hopes he doesn’t have to answer.

But Nate’s always been more patient than Jo, always been able to outwait him. Jo sighs. “I was gonna grab something with a few guys. Eks invited me.”

“He invited me too, I can come to that,” Nate jumps in helpfully. “I just figure, if we’re gonna see each other a lot during this tourney, we should—hang out again. Like old times, you know?”

Jo wishes he could slam something. Old times, right. Like when they were Nate-and-Jo instead of Nate and Jo. He wants to say “No, not like old times,” wants to say "Don't talk about that," wants to say “It can’t be like that because you left me behind and I just now learned how to leave you too.” He doesn’t. What he does say is, “Yeah. Sure.”

“Great!” Nate claps his shoulder, smiles so wide and sunny at Jo that Jo doesn’t really know where to look except at his soft eyes and awkward smile.

Lunch is okay, not unpleasant but not remarkable either. Jo eats his sandwich and ignores the random creeps snapping pictures of Eks and Auston. Nate’s seated next to him, bumping elbows, and he smiles shyly at Jo every time their shoulders brush.

Jo’s heart feels overfull, and he feels something concrete and solid inside him crumble to ash. It feels inevitable.

 

The third day’s optional skate. There’s still two weeks until the start of the pre-tournament, plenty of time to learn to skate with these guys, but Jo’s not lazy. He’s been rejected too often by now to not show up to every single skate; he’s had to learn to work for ice time, and he’s sworn that he’s going to actually _play_ in this tourney.

Nate drops into the stall next to him as he carefully tapes his stick, his own stick ready and tapping against the floor.

“You think Cooper is gonna put us on the same line for the tourney?” Nate asks.

End over end over end, the tape winds over the black blade of his stick. “Dunno. He keeps changing the line combos. I think he likes me with Nuge.”

“ _I_ like you on my wing though,” Nate says, and that’s just the sort of thing Nate says with confidence, isn’t it? The kind of innocent little thing Nate says that sucks Jo right back in, as easily as it did in juniors.

“Not up to you, is it?”

Nate pouts. “We’re magic together, c’mon Jo. Everyone knows that. We complement each other.”

The stick’s done, and Jo grabs another, begins taping that one too. “We used to. Chemistry changes though, you know?”

“Not us.” Nate’s voice is quiet. “Never us. Spark’s still there.” He catches Jo’s wrist, and Jo stops taping, stares hard at the blade of his stick. “It’s still there, right? Right, Jonathan?” He sounds fragile, like he needs Jo to answer but is afraid to hear it.

And Jo knows he’s not talking only about hockey anymore. Nate’s asking about—about them, about more than just Nate-and-Jo the hockey duo that tore up the Q. He’s asking about Nate-and-Jo, the pimply boys who used to do everything together, drove to school and played street hockey and video games, had spontaneous eat-overs and sleepovers, who knew each other inside and out. Nate-and-Jo, best friends and soulmates.

Jo lets out a breath, controlled and careful. “Yeah Nathan,” he says. “Spark’s still there.”

And it is, as much as Jo wishes otherwise.

He doesn’t wish it as hard when he sees the way Nate beams at him, like Jo’s given him the best news he’s had all year.

They click even better on the ice that day, and when Nate cellies, he cups the back of Jo’s head and bumps their visors together, smiling all goofy and pleased like he scored in an actual game instead of a practice scrimmage.

“We’re gonna go out there and win, again,” Nate promises. “We’re gonna win _together_ again, Jo.”

Jo’s so fucking weak, because he looks up at Nate, only inches away, and wants to be nowhere else. He wants to win, but more importantly, he wants to be there with Nate when he does.

So much for not letting Nate back into his life. He’s so fucked.

 

It’s too easy to get caught up in Nate again, and Jo’s tired of fighting it. They catch meals together every night, and Nate’s ridiculously happy about it every time, looking at Jo like he’s afraid he’ll vanish in front of his eyes.

“Stop looking at me,” Jo complains after he catches Nate shooting periodic glances at him during movie night with the team in Nate's room.

The tips of Nate’s ears flush, but he blusters through. “I’m not looking at your ugly mug. There are better things to look at here.” He doesn’t stop peeking though.

Sometime during the movie, they migrate to the head of the bed, backs pressed to the headboard, shoulders rubbing and thighs pressed solid against each other under the blanket that Nate’s draped over their laps.

It might be an accident, but Nate’s hand falls on top of Jo’s, and his fingers curl around it, thumb rubbing absently over Jo’s knuckles.

Jo wants to pull his hand away, has no clue what Nate thinks he’s doing, but Nate’s hand is big and warm and he doesn’t really want him to stop. He focuses too hard on the movie instead and completely misses the plot.

He doesn’t notice when he starts to droop, letting his head rest on Nate’s shoulder, a comfortable spot that he’s still familiar with. Nate slips an arm around him, pulls him close, and Jo’s too tired to do anything but welcome it. His eyes slip shut and he drowses lightly against Nate, the material of his shirt soft against Jo’s cheek.

It’s 3 am when he wakes suddenly. The room is dark, and Jo’s too-hot under the covers, sweating slightly into his shirt. It’s September in Toronto, what was he thinking—

The bed creaks a little as someone rolls over, and then Nate’s pressed all up against his back, a heavy arm draped over his waist and what feels like his hair tickling the back of Jo’s neck. Nate’s legs kick a little before he slots them comfortably between Jo’s, and fuck, this is too much like what Jo doesn’t ever let himself think about or want—

This is too much like waking up in Nate’s bed in Halifax or on the road, their bodies curled around each other for warmth, their breathing even in the darkness. Back then, it'd been innocent, Jo too caught up in hockey and the headiness of winning to understand what his feelings meant. Now though...

Jo lets himself soak in the feel of Nate’s body, bigger and stronger and broader than it was three years ago, before slipping out from under the covers. In his sleep, Nate reaches out, but he settles when Jo shoves a pillow into his arms, mumbling softly.

It shouldn’t be this hard to leave the room, but it takes Jo a few long moments before he turns to gather his things from the nightstand and flees.

The hallway’s bright lights hurt his eyes, and he shivers a little as the sweat on his skin begins to cool. His room’s down the hall, and it takes a few tries before his key card is accepted. Larks is sound asleep already, snoring softly, and Jo makes sure to close the door quietly behind himself.

He crawls into bed and kicks the covers to the foot of the bed, but it’s suddenly cold without Nate’s body wrapped around him. It takes a long while for sleep to find him again.

 

After the first game, Coop shuffles the lines and pairs Jo with Nate after all. They’re magic together, like Nate said, and it shows. Nuge is the third-man-out on their line, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“I’m glad you made up with Mac,” he tells Jo one day as they’re heading back to the hotel. “I don’t know what was going on, but I’m glad you guys fixed it.”

Jo startles a little. “There wasn’t anything going on,” he says. He sounds tight, defensive. Nuge shoots him a skeptical look, arching one fine eyebrow.

“Whatever you say.”

And Jo would think that was a one-off thing, Nuge picking up on whatever’s going on with him and Nate, except Jonesy claps him on the back during dinner and says, “So you two made up, eh, Drou?”

“What?” Jo stops shoveling food into his mouth, even lowers his fork to focus on Jonesy, who nods in Nate’s direction. When Jo turns to look, Nate is laughing through a mouthful of pasta. It’s pretty gross.

“You and Big Mac. After your little breakup. You two are cool now, right?”

“What breakup?”

Jonesy stares. “Don’t kid, man. We’re not gonna judge, you know that, right? I don’t know when you two broke up, but Mac's been moping for a long fucking time. He’s only just stopped looking like a kicked puppy a few weeks ago.”

“We didn’t break up,” Jo says through numb lips. What the fuck is Jonesy _on_.

“Well I don’t know, you guys were all lovebirds before and during the draft and then the look on your face when you saw him again during that first practice? That’s the look you get when your ex walks in the room.”

“I didn’t have a _look_ on my face.”

“Sure you didn’t. And I guess I was imagining the way Mac fucking lit up like Christmas when he saw you.”

Jo hadn’t been looking at Nate during that first practice, had been studiously avoiding him, so he can’t say much about that. But Jonesy’s crazy, he has to be. They weren’t acting like—like a couple, or anything. That’s fucking crazy.

(It might not be though, because Jo's never been good at hiding his emotions.)

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says stubbornly, and Jonesy drops it.

Jonesy doesn’t know anything, anyway. Sure, he was there for all their pre-draft stuff, the interviews and awkward photoshoots with Don Cherry. But he doesn’t know a damn thing about Nate and Jo.

 

“Do you think—”

Nate’s half-asleep, his face almost falling into his plate of room-service steak. But he still makes an effort to open his eyes. “Mmmm?”

“Never mind. It was just something Jonesy said.”

“What’d he say?” Nate picks up his fork, pokes some steak into his mouth and chews slowly, blinking sleepily at Jo. He looks remarkably like a large, docile cow.

Jo pushes his own plate away and stretches out on the bed, folding his arms behind his head. “He just said something about us.”

“Okay, what about us?”

Maybe Jo’s a little chickenshit, because now that he’s brought it up, he doesn’t want to tell Nate. Doesn’t want to connect that idea—the idea of an _ex—_ with Nate at all. He fiddles with his watch and crosses and uncrosses his ankles, chewing his lip. “Do you think—that we’re acting like a couple that’s broken up?” he blurts out.

There’s a quiet little clank as Nate drops his fork. “Is that what Jonesy said?” His voice is flat, and he suddenly sounds much more awake, shifting to sit up properly.

“Yeah. But it was stupid, I told him that.”

Nate deflates. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Of course, that's stupid.” He stares down at his plate and rubs his wrist. “Are we going to talk about it though?”

“About what?” Yeah, Jo’s definitely chickenshit.

“About—fuck, Jo, about you avoiding me for three fucking years. You can’t just stop talking to me after the draft and then act like nothing’s changed.”

And he’s right, that’s the thing. Because things _have_ changed, because Jo and Nate aren’t on the same team anymore, are barely even friends now. This—whatever they’re doing, hanging out in Toronto like it’s Halifax all over again—it’s not going to last. When the tourney’s over, Nate’s going back to Denver, Jo to Tampa, and they’re going to be thousands of kilometers apart again. Jo can’t keep forgetting himself, can’t keep falling back into old habits, can’t keep depending on Nate like Nate’s always going to be there.

Hell, he shouldn’t even be here, alone in Nate’s room.

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, grabs his phone and his jacket. “Where are you going?” Nate asks.

Jo ignores the hurt in his voice. “Gonna call it an early night, I think.”

“Are you seriously ignoring this?”

 _Yeah_ , Jo thinks, and he wants to slam the door behind him, but he already feels shitty enough and he’s not that petty.

In his room, he strips to his boxers and climbs into bed, fucking around on his phone for a few hours until he falls asleep.

 

 

They win, and win, and win.

Nate crushes him to his chest when they celly after Jo’s first goal, and Jo allows himself one weak moment of blinding joy, grinning into Nate’s shoulder, Nate’s arm tight around him.

“Fucking beaut,” Nate says, bumping helmets with him, and Jo lets himself look into his eyes for a second. Just for a second.

Off the ice, they don’t talk anymore.

 

They lose to Russia, and Jo gets his ice time cut.

He stays late after practice the day before Sweden’s game, shooting pucks at the net until his wrists are aching. Muzz skates with him, staring mournfully at his taped thumb.

“I think it’s broken,” he says sadly.

Jo collects his pucks into a messy pile before he starts his shooting drill again. “Your thumb?” he asks.

“My hand. The trainers told the press I’m day-to-day, but I’m pretty sure I’m not going to be able to play for a while.”

The last puck pings loudly as it hits the crossbar and ricochets into the boards. “That sucks, man.” It really does. Muzz has been solid for them, a calm presence in net that they could depend on. Jo’s already known how good he is, has scored a few difficult goals on Muzz during the Conference Finals. He’s really good. Without him, it’s looking a bit trickier going into their must-win game against Sweden.

Muzz sighs. “We can still win it though, right? Gibs is pretty solid. And our forwards are great.” He watches Jo gather his pucks again. “I know we goalies don’t talk a lot about chemistry up front, but are you and Nathan okay?”

Jo pauses for a second. “We’re fine.”

“Nathan thinks you’re mad at him.”

“What?”

“It’s just what I’ve heard from the rest of the team. They’re worried about it affecting your line chemistry.” Muzz scratches his nose with his uninjured hand. “And they’re worried about you two,” he adds, quieter.

“I’m not mad at him. He didn’t do anything.”

“I think you better tell him that, then.” Muzz’s eyes are bright and intelligent as he looks at Jo. “So you can fix whatever it is before it’s too late.”

“Nothing to fix, Muzzy.” Jo dumps his pucks in the bucket and skates to the bench, leaves Muzz alone to do his skating exercises.

Everyone knows goalies are weird, anyway.

 

They win against Sweden, but then Coop tells them that it’s not enough.

“What does he mean?” Ghost asks, confused. “We _won_.”

“We had to win in regulation,” Davo says, and there’s frustration in every syllable.

“What the fuck, why didn’t he tell us?” someone says, but the room’s swelling with noise now, too many voices speaking up at once.

“Are you telling me we cellied for nothing?”

“Are we out?”

“What the _fuck_ , Davo—”

Davo calms the room down eventually, explains about Russia and Finland and the tiebreaker. Across the room, Nate catches Jo’s eye, gives him a tired smile. Jo looks away.

A staff person comes and collects Davo, Nate, and Auston for the post-game media scrum. Jo goes back to the hotel for a nap.

Team dinner is quiet and stilted. No one really knows how to feel, knowing that they’ve done all they can and that the fate of their team rests in the hands of two other teams now. Jo stabs viciously at his penne and can’t stop shooting little looks at Nate.

Nate’s seemingly relaxed, eating quickly but keeping up a constant flow of conversation. He’s perfectly polite and upbeat, optimistic even. “Russia’s had some defensive break-downs,” he points out over a plate of salmon. “I’m sure Finland will find their scoring touch tomorrow.”

Davo pipes up now and then, and it sounds like the kind of bullshit that team leaders always feed their teams when things are looking down. It’s well-appreciated though.

To the rest of the team, Nate looks like he’s—not quite happy, but hopeful. His smiles are wide and friendly, and he doesn’t look too worried.

“I’ll see you guys tomorrow. I’m wiped,” he says when he’s done with his food. Everyone else is still eating, and they wish him a good night. Jo watches him go, pushes back his chair and follows a few minutes after Nate’s gone.

It takes a few rounds of knocking before Nate opens the door. His eyes go wide when he sees who it is.

“Jo? Uh, what are you doing here?”

“Can I come in?”

Nate shuffles back, lets Jo past him into the room. “What’s wrong?” he asks as he closes the door.

There’s a pile of dirty clothing climbing up Nate’s chair, and Jo eyes it for a second before giving it up as a battle lost and taking a seat on the bed instead. The mattress dips as Nate joins him, about a foot of space between them.

“What’s wrong?” Nate asks again. Not _what’s up_. What’s _wrong_. He gets that pinched look between his brows that means he’s worried. “Are you hurt?”

“What? No. Nothing, I’m fine.”

“You—Okay. Why are you here?”

Jo licks his lips and looks Nate in the eye. “You’re upset, and I wanna know why.”

“What?”

“The hat.” Jo’s eyes dart up to where the Mooseheads snapback is pulled low over Nate’s eyes. “You were wearing it at dinner. You don’t wear that one unless you’re really upset. And you always wear your hats like—” He reaches up and grabs a hold of it, turning it so it's facing backwards. "Like that."

Nate pulls the snapback off his head and settles it in his lap, playing with the strap. “You don’t get to ask me why I’m upset, Jo,” he says quietly. “Not after I’ve been trying to talk to you for the past few weeks and you kept pushing me away. Not after the last three years.”

Fuck, okay, that hurts, but Jo knows he’s right. “I just—” He swallows. “I hate seeing you like this, Nate.”

“Well fuck, Jo, you didn’t notice I was upset for the _past three years?_ ”

“Not like, Mooseheads snapback-upset.”

Nate traces the green H on the front, the stylized moose head rearing up from it. He thinks for a long moment. “If I tell you, will you talk to me? Like, really talk?”

And Jo knows he could say no, could walk away and cut Nate out of his life for real. Because if he walks away, that’s exactly what’s going to happen. He’ll finally move on, figure out what exactly he can do without Nathan MacKinnon.

“Yeah, Nate. I’ll—I’ll talk. If you tell me what’s wrong.”

“We’re out,” Nate says in a rush. “Us, Team North America. Finland’s been outclassed in every game this tourney, they haven’t won anything since that first OT win over Sweden. They don’t have a single goal yet. Russia’s got shit defense, but Bobrovsky’s been keeping them in, every game. Unless Finland pulls some magic out of their ass, we’re out tomorrow.” He looks up at Jo, misery all over his face. “I want to _win_ , Jo. I haven’t had a shot at anything since I left Hali—I’ve been to the playoffs _once_ in my life, and we didn’t even make it out of the first round. I just want to know what it feels like to win again.”

Jo gets it. The Avs are a good team, but going from winning the Mem Cup to a team struggling to even clinch a playoff spot—it’s hard. Jo’s had his own ups and downs, but at least his team has gone deep, year after year.

“I wanna be able to hope that Finland can pull this one off, but it just doesn’t feel like it, you know? I wanted to show people that we’re not a joke. But if we can’t even make it out of the group stage—”

“People already know though,” Jo says, fiercely. “We showed them, Nate. _You_ showed them. Everyone saw your goals against Halak, and your OT winner against Lundqvist. You’re really fucking good, and everyone knows that.”

“I just don’t want to go home yet.” Nate closes his eyes briefly before he looks at Jo, bites his lip. “I don’t want this to be over yet.”

“Me neither. I want to keep playing—”

Nate breaks in. “Not just that. Not just the hockey.” He takes a shuddering breath. When he speaks again, his voice is small. “This is the most I’ve seen you since the draft. I—I _missed_ you. I was hoping, maybe, since we were going to be on the same team together, we could fix whatever was wrong with us.”

Jo looks away. “I missed you too,” he says quietly. He doesn’t even know where to begin.

“What went wrong, Jo? What _happened_? I thought we were friends, but you stopped texting and calling and visiting. I don’t know what I did wrong—”

“You didn’t do anything.” Because Jo’s stupid, and selfish, and a brat, but he’d never let Nate blame himself for Jo’s choices. “It was just—I had to learn how to move on—”

“From what?”

“From _you_ , god, Nate, you don’t know how much I depended on you in juniors. When you left and I went back to Hali, I didn’t fucking know what I was doing without you. I was looking for you all over the ice, thinking I’d swing over to your house to see you, or reaching for my phone to tell you to come drive me to the mall—I was a mess, okay?”

“And you think I wasn’t dealing with the same? Waking up and thinking about driving you to school, about seeing your face first thing in the morning—You think I wasn’t dealing with that too?”

Except it’s different for Nate, because Nate was in the NHL, Nate was _succeeding_ , while Jo was demoted back to playing fucking junior hockey. He says as much.

“That doesn’t—” Nate laughs hollowly. “Fuck, Jo, the Show is great, but it’s not everything. There’s hockey, but you know you mean more than just hockey to me, right? I know we were teammates, and that’s over, but you’re still my best friend. You’re my soulmate.”

There he goes again, saying things like that so effortlessly, dragging Jo deeper. “I don’t think that word means what you think it means,” Jo says, but his joke falls flat.

“Jo,” Nate shifts closer until their knees bump, “Jo, god. I missed you. So much.” He reaches out, covers Jo’s hand with his own. “I still miss you. Please—please don’t push me away again.”

It’s like a fucking dam breaks inside Jo, because he slumps forward into Nate’s arms, buries his face in the space between Nate’s shoulder and neck, warm and familiar. His fingers curl into the front of Nate’s shirt. “I missed you too much,” he whispers hoarsely. “There was too much of you in Hali. Everything reminded me of you. I couldn’t—I couldn’t _deal_ , Nate. You were in Denver, being amazing, and I thought you moved on without me, you didn’t need me—”

“I didn’t, I still need you,” Nate says fervently. His arms tighten around Jo, cradling him close. “I didn’t move on, Jo, I thought _you_ didn’t want _me_ in your life.”

“It’s more than that though. I _needed_ to move on, I couldn’t be hung up on you forever, not when you don’t—You’re my best friend, you know that, right? But I wanted—fuck, Nate, you don’t know the things I wanted.”

Nate runs his hands through Jo’s hair, soothing. “What things?” he whispers. “What things, Jo?”

“I can’t—”

Nate pulls back and grabs him by the shoulders, stares at him hard. “You said you’d talk to me.” His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “Talk to me, Jo?” He cups Jo’s cheek with one hand, too-intimate. They’ve always been tactile, especially with one another, and this gesture isn’t new, but Jo wishes it means something different to Nate.

He can’t speak, doesn’t know how to put this into words, so he screws up his courage and mumbles, “Just—” and leans in the scant few inches to press his mouth to Nate’s. It’s clumsy and not particularly good, the angle not quite right, and Jo pulls back after a stunned few seconds.

“That’s why,” he says quietly. “That’s why I needed to move on.”

“And did you?” Nate asks, a little frozen.

They both know the answer. “No. I tried but—I still, I love you, I think.”

“ _Fuck_ , Jo...”

Jo looks away, face burning, knowing he’s just fucked things up for good. Maybe Nate will actually cut him out of his life now, and Jo will be free to mope and pine and hurt until the hurt dulls into numbness turns into acceptance—

“Jo, c’mere.” Nate catches his face again, cups his chin and tilts his face up so he can slot their mouths back together. Jo makes a startled sound in his throat, hands flying up to clutch Nate’s biceps in surprise.

Nate kisses slow and careful, exploratory. His eyes are closed, golden lashes soft against his cheeks, and Jo lets his own eyes fall shut.

He doesn’t know how much time passes—One minute? Ten? An hour?—before Nate pulls back and rests his forehead against Jo’s. “Me too. About the love thing, I mean. I love you too. You weren’t the only one who wanted that.”

“I didn’t think you did.”

“I know. I didn’t think you did either.”

“That was pretty stupid of us, eh?”

“Yeah.”

Jo darts in, nips Nate’s bottom lip, can’t believe he gets to do this. When he pulls away, Nate chases after him and claims his mouth again, and they fall back on the bed. They lose another few minutes.

“Do you remember that video?” Jo asks when they’re able to breathe again. They’re on their sides, facing each other, and Nate’s staring at him with an amazed look on his face that makes Jo feel a little uncomfortable and a lot warm.

“You’re gonna need to explain which one, we did a lot of videos together.”

“Shut up, I was going to say the one with what’s his face—that one reporter—John Moore? In the car, with our gear on.”

“Oh yeah, that. I’m not driving with gear on again, that shit was uncomfortable.”

Jo traces over the bridge of Nate’s nose, runs his fingers across Nate’s cheekbones. “I said, during the video, that I didn’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Yeah, I remember.” Nate catches his wrist and kisses his fingers. “I thought it was stupid of me to remember something you said three years ago, but I do.”

“I still don’t know what I’m going to do without you.”

Nate rolls over, on top of Jo, and looking up, Jo can see him smiling down softly, his blond hair haloed by the overhead light. “I’m here though. Right here, right now, I’m right here.”

Jo wraps his arms around Nate’s neck, pulls him down and under.

 

 

In another universe, maybe Jo never got to have this. But now that Jo knows what it’s like, he knows he can’t give it up.

Nate buried inside him, his hips rolling slow and deep. Nate breathing raggedly into his mouth, alternating between kissing and gasping out little moans of pleasure. Nate’s face pressed to his neck, worrying the skin with his teeth. Nate everywhere—above him, inside him, all heavy weight and sweaty skin as Jo clings to his shoulders.

Nate whispering stupid, sappy, sweet things in his ear that Jo can’t ever let anyone know he loved.

Jo can’t give this up.

 

 

Nate was right, and Finland doesn’t score. Russia’s in, North America’s out.

“We did our best though,” Davo says evenly over a plate of toast. “And it was an honor to play for the World Cup. An amazing opportunity.”

Jo shifts in his chair, feels the little ache that Nate left inside him, and agrees.

 

“I’m flying out tomorrow,” Jo tells Nate’s collarbone that night.

Nate’s arms tighten around him, and he says, “Me too.”

“Is this—Is this it? Tampa and Denver—that’s thousands of kilometers, and we’ll only see each other twice a year—”

“I know.” Nate rushes the words out, as if he can stop the thoughts flying through Jo’s mind if only he can speak fast enough. “But we can work. It’ll be tough, and sometimes the distance will feel like too much, but we can do it.” He nuzzles Jo’s temple, presses a kiss there. “I don’t wanna go back to whatever we were before.”

“Me neither.” Jo closes his eyes, tries to commit the feel of Nate to memory, warm skin everywhere that Jo had mapped out earlier with his mouth. “But if you think we can do it, I want to try.”

He’s scared, so scared, letting himself hope like this. Giving Nate more of his heart, as if Nate didn’t hold enough of it already. This is the opposite of moving on. This is spiraling deeper and deeper into Nate, and Jo doesn’t know if he’ll ever have the strength to pull himself out.

He’s not sure if that really matters though, because he doesn’t think he  _wants_ out.

 

In the airport, Jo drags Nate into as secluded a corner as he could find in Toronto Pearson Airport and kisses him hard.

“That’s supposed to last until our meeting in October,” he says when he pulls back.

Nate pouts. “You better give me another one then, I wasn’t ready.”

Jo kisses him again, and Nate hums into it, pleased.

“Good?” Jo asks.

Nate’s eyes are still closed. “Yeah. And another one for good luck?”

“Good luck for what? I’m not giving the Avs any luck.”

“C’mon, babe, Jo—”

Jo kisses him silent. “There’s your luck,” he murmurs. “Better not use it against my team though.” He sounds ridiculous; they both do. He doesn’t mind.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Jo smiles, and Nate goes on. “I’m going to beat the Lightning using my raw talent alone.”

“Oh shut up, I’m taking my kisses back—”

“No way, you gave them to me for free—”

They tussle a little, but Nate wins the fight quickly when he steals another kiss.

“What’s that one for?” Jo asks.

“That one’s just for you.”

**Author's Note:**

> A few notes:
> 
> -The article about Jo's production suffering because he's without Nate is a real article, I just can't find it  
> -So is the article where Nate talks about Jo fitting in well with Calder Finalists Tyler Johnson and Ondrej Palat. There are a lot of articles where Nate praises Jo, tbh  
> -"We complement each other" and "Spark's still there" are also real life quotes from one of the boys' mouths  
> -Every goal and point that is registered (or not registered, in Jo's rookie season) is real  
> -Actually a lot of this is based on reality except for the sad texts and the conversations and kissing  
> -Summary is a real quote that Jo says in that John Moore [video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8HPFsPNQ3C0)


End file.
